Sonnet 29 (shakespeare homage)

Here I am, man, penniless, in sorrow’s hold,

Singularly I cry for my stature, so dreary, so low.

My pleading echoes in skies bleak and cold,

My mind in depths of despair, oh, how the rot does grow.

Envy weeps for those with treasure deep,

For I am him, should fortune change, and bless me all the same.

Yearning for his riches, the field of gold to which thee does reap.

Art form shared but one’s gold doth earn more acclaim.

Yet, I abhor my envious mind’s display,

For wealth appears in varied forms and guise,

In you, dear love, I find my bright sun's rise,

A treasure richer than the wealth of kings' array.

Your love, a treasure beyond all things,

That makes me richer than the wealth of kings.